


Chinos

by MacPye



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-04
Updated: 2012-05-04
Packaged: 2017-11-04 20:06:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 817
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/397722
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MacPye/pseuds/MacPye
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Covert operations require covert outfits. So covert, your own brother doesn't recognise you...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Chinos

**Author's Note:**

> [Headcanon: Charlie Dunn is played by Anthony Head. Why yes, I have cast my OC.]

It was dark when their unofficial meeting finally drew to an end.

The Syrian general, as much out of uniform as Mycroft was, shook their hands tensely before exiting the teahouse.

Charles Dunn sighed and stretched out his legs before him. “Honestly, I just hope David realizes how pressing this is,” he remarked.

“Hmmm,” Mycroft said, lips pursed, collecting some papers from the table. “Methinks he’s been a bit blinded by the Olympic fire.”

Charles snorted. “I think he’s more busy thinking what to vote in the mayoral election.”

“As if that isn’t a given,” said Mycroft, an eyebrow raised. “The only thing he’s considering his vote for is what colour tie he’ll be wearing to tick that box.”

Charles started laughing, but broke off abruptly when a loud bang sounded, too close by for comfort. He glanced at Mycroft, who had stilled into the poise of a tiger alerted to the presence of big game hunters.

“The general,” he breathed, and hurriedly stood up. Charles followed him out of the teahouse.

They paused on the pavement, determining where the sound had come from. An eddy of confused and curious people went down the road to the left, and they quickly allowed themselves to be taken along by the current.

At the end of the street was a crossroad, the pedestrian area intersected by a busier thoroughfare, a south bound, one way street. Traffic had congested as two police cars blocked the way, sirens still flashing. An officer in a fluorescent parka was rolling out police tape, while a few others were trying to sort out the traffic congestion.

At the opposite side of the crossing, DI Lestrade arrived, Sherlock and John in tow.

“Damn it,” breathed Mycroft.

“Shush,” said Charles, “he won’t recognise you.”

“It’s not Sherlock I’m worried about,” Mycroft hissed.

“The DI?”

“He isn’t a problem,” said Mycroft through gritted teeth, his eyes fixed on the tarmac. Charles followed his gaze, and realized, with a slights sinking feeling, that the victim was, indeed, the general.

“Nothing much can be done for him, now,” he said.

“Don’t be dim, of course not,” said Mycroft irritably. “But the briefcase.”

Charles’s head snapped back around. 

The general’s briefcase was gone.

“Damn it,” breathed Charles.

 

***

 

As Sherlock circled the body of the victim, with John as his captivated front-row audience, Lestrade allowed his gaze to travel over the crowd of onlookers. He did a double-take.

Mycroft Holmes was part of the crowd, a man of similar height and bearing flanking him. Lestrade could pinpoint why his eyes had initially skipped over them; Mycroft wasn’t wearing a suit.

Somehow, it was oddly diminishing, as if Mycroft’s persona of importance had been taken down a notch. It was like seeing a born military man out of uniform.

He caught Mycroft’s eye and slowly crossed the road.

“Nice coat,” he told Mycroft once he was within earshot.

Mycroft pursed his lips, and turned to the man next to him. “Charles, this is Detective Inspector Lestrade,” he said, “Inspector, this is Charles Dunn, a colleague.”

“Colleague, eh?” said Lestrade, shaking Charles’s hand. “Don’t tell me, you’re the British military command.”

Charles let out a laugh. “Close enough,” he said, highly amused.

“There was only so much left,” said Lestrade, shrugging, “since his other colleague pretty much is the Queen’s housekeeper.”

Charles laughed again, but Mycroft cleared his throat pointedly.

“Yeah, enough of this,” said Lestrade, fixing Mycroft with his gaze. “You’re here because of our dead man.”

It wasn’t a question, it was pretty much a certainty. If Mycroft and his “colleague” were part of the onlookers, it was because of their ties with the victim, not because they enjoyed sight-seeing.

Mycroft stared at Lestrade for a moment, then said, quietly, “There isn’t much I can tell you, except that he had a briefcase. It needs to be retrieved.”

“I’ll set the Labrador on it,” said Lestrade, gesturing at Sherlock, who was crouched over the body. Charles snorted, but schooled his face to look serious when he saw the line of Mycroft’s mouth.

“Just tell my brother that I’ve phoned you,” Mycroft said stiffly.

“Will do, my leash,” Lestrade grinned, nodded at Charles, and walked back to Sherlock.

 

***

 

Charles couldn’t help but laugh at Mycroft’s sour face. “He really isn’t impressed is he, that DI?”

“Let’s leave here,” said Mycroft, turning away from the crime scene.

“I have to say, I like the man,” commented Charles, as they casually made their way back up the street.

“He’s in the middle of a divorce,” said Mycroft tightly.

The corners of Charles’s mouth quirked up again. “And you were trying to be suave at him. Oh, my dear, Mycroft.”

Mycroft glared at him, and Charles raised his hands in supplication. “Never fear, my man,” he said, a little sobered up, “you should have seen his face when he clocked your legs in those chinos.”


End file.
